


Same Beach, Same Year

by missbeizy



Series: Ventura Beach [1]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Innocence, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Will (26) and Chris (18) meet on the beach in Ventura in 2009 instead of later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Beach, Same Year

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for: recreational pot use (Will, not Chris).

Chris isn't sure why he'd thought the fact that his Glee money had paid for this trip to Ventura would change anything.  

This vacation is shaping up to be the same as every one of their previous family vacations have been—matching outfits, cheesy posed photos, scheduled activities and, most of all, a flawless, practiced avoidance of most of the things that make up the space he occupies.  

Truthfully, he doesn't hate every bit of it—he loves his sister, and he loves his parents even though he's pretty sure that he doesn't like them. But he's always been different, and their determination to ignore and then suddenly, rabidly, and selectively accept him has always been a special kind of awkward.  His father sort of pretends it's not happening, or acknowledges it in undefined, neutral ways.  His mother tries, but either overshoots the mark or fails.  Hannah loves him unconditionally, and he has a slew of aunts, uncles, and cousins who are just as great.  

He supposes that he's lucky, considering where and how he grew up—at least, he tries to see it this way.  But then they'll get into politics or religion at the dinner table and he wants to scream. Don't they realize that he's sitting right there?  Don't they realize that one day he's going to bring a guy or new friends home and they'll have to be different around people who aren't able to just accept them the way that he has come to?  Don't they see how much it bothers him?  Don't they care?  

Yet again he reminds himself that being an eighteen year old working actor hasn't changed his home life much, so why should vacations be any different?

Not to mention that he can't even look in the mirror without wanting to cry, lately.  Working in LA around beautiful people and seeing himself on screen has made him realize that he both wants and needs to change.  Dieting and exercise have made him even crankier than he usually is, even though he knows that it's working.  He just can't feel the progress, though—he'd stared at himself in the shorts and t-shirt that he'd decided to wear today and hated his reflection, and put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants instead.   _It's chilly enough to get away with it_ , he thinks.

The day goes alright until his parents spot a group of kids about his age down the beach.

"Christopher, why don't you go say hi?" his mom asks, smiling encouragingly. "They look nice."

It's no coincidence that she says this about a herd of people that's comprised mostly of girls.  Up until a year ago she had still been bragging about him being "so close" with the girl who he'd attended various social events with through high school, as if by sheer force of will she could turn that consistency into something that it had never been.  She means well, but Chris just can't see these attempts as anything but semi-abusive wishful thinking.  He hates it more than he ever has, now that he's experienced being more himself in LA and knows what it's like to get excited about other guys who are able to return the feeling.  He flat out wonders when the hell his parents are going to get over the fact that he's one hundred and ten percent gay.

"Take Hannah with you," his dad says.

For her, he does it.  He's awkward and the introduction doesn't go very well, so after about a half an hour of trying and failing to work their way into the group of teenagers, he and Hannah walk down the beach alone together, picking seashells.  He wants to make a joke to break the painful silence, but he can't think of a topic that both suits his mood and wouldn't potentially upset her, so he starts singing instead, and delights in her giggles until she's red-faced and breathless.  He never has to worry about disappointing  _her_ , at least.

It's uncharacteristically overcast, so his family turns in early after dinner, Hannah and Chris to the room that they're sharing and his parents taking over the single television.  Chris reads in between writing attempts on his laptop, and when he stops to read, he does it aloud for her.  

He sleeps well for the first time since they've been on vacation, and wakes up the next day willing to come out from under the umbrella on the beach.  They have a portable breakfast basket from a nearby deli—he takes an apple and a protein bar, and strikes out on his own.  He rinses his apple-sticky hands in the waves, and then walks out into the water until he's calf-deep, enjoying the push-pull of the ocean and the sucking grasp of the sand against the bottoms of his feet. It's a beautiful day, and the beach is well-populated.  He's relatively isolated where he is, though, so he allows himself to watch other groups of people.  There's no shortage of beautiful, barely dressed men and women having a much better time than he is, but their reality doesn't feel as unattainable as it used to.  He knows that he can have that life—whirlwind, fun, and demanding.  He knows that his dreams are achievable and he's willing to bust his ass to get there.  He just wants it all  _now_ , and it's driving him crazy that he can't have it.

  


 

He's so deep in his own world that he doesn't realize how close he's getting to one of these party groups until a volleyball from their game comes winging its way towards him very fast.

The man who chases it is laughing, and for one chest-wrenching moment Chris realizes that he's wearing shorts that don't fit (they may even be his dad's), a t-shirt with breakfast stains on it, his hair is a mess, and he has three pimples on his chin.  By contrast, this man's body is so perfect that it makes Chris' breath stop, just as the volleyball collides with Chris' foot.  He's at least five inches taller than Chris with sun-lightened, tousled brown hair, warm brown eyes, freckled skin, a rock hard torso, arms, and legs, and a six pack that looks computer generated.

Chris' open mouth goes wet.

"Hey, sorry," the man says, holding out his hands.

 _He wants his volleyball back.  Of course._  Chris can't feel his fingers.  His hands are shaking.  He picks up the ball and tosses it back.

"'S'okay," he mumbles, trying not to stare.  At the very least, he attempts to keep his eyes on the man's face instead of letting them drop to scour that gorgeous body from top to bottom, the way that he really wants to.  The blue, pink, and white shorts that the man is wearing are dripping off of a pelvis that can only be described as sculpted.  He won't look again.   _He won't look again._

  


 

"I didn't get you in the head, did I?" the man asks.

Chris laughs, like an involuntary cough, and is mortified when it comes out squeaky. "Oh, no." He has no idea why the man is still talking to him.

"You alone?" the man asks. "We've got room if you wanna play."

Does this guy have any idea how very much that is not a question people ever ask Chris?  

But instead of saying "yes, oh, god, I would be your towel boy if that's all you had 'room' for" he blurts, lamely, "I'm here with my parents."

_Wow, I actually just said that._

"Oh," the man says, smiling. "Maybe another day?"

How is Chris even still standing upright?

"Sure," he says, as red and warm as cooked lobster.

"How long are you here for?"

"Through next weekend."

"Awesome."

The pause in conversation allows him to glance behind the man, and his face burns even hotter at the sight.  The strip of beach and even the houses behind it are covered in rainbow colored tents and flags. There isn't a pair of boobs in sight, and the men partying there are not hiding themselves in any way.  Everywhere he looks he sees men twined in pairs or groups, laughing and drinking and singing and dancing, without a care in the world.  

Chris is not precisely the kind of kid who feels immediately comfortable in this setting, but their shameless, masculine-yet-simultaneously-flaming joy calls to him.  He wants to be confident enough to take off his shirt and have a cute guy's arms around him.  He wants to immerse himself in a group of gay men and feel at home.  He wants to flirt and be flirted with.

One of the man's friends interrupts his daydreaming by shouting, "Found someone to babysit, Will?"

Chris' pulse spikes.   _And there's the other side of that coin._

"Screw you very much," Will replies, smirking. "Don't let them bother you.  They're pretty stoned."

He has no idea what to say to that so he says, somewhat defensively, "I'm eighteen."

Will pauses, looking curious, and then grins. "Good to know?"

_Oh, my god, what is this even?_

"See ya around, I hope," Will says, jogging away.

And  _holy shit_  is the view from the back just as nice as the view from the front.  

Chris almost turns right around in his haste to escape, but then picks a different direction—he has a boner to walk off, as forgiving as his sweatpants are in that department.

He only realizes then that he hadn't even told the man his name.

 

*

 

This proves not to be an issue, though.  

Two days later Will and his friends are back—the party is smaller and less colorful, but they're playing volleyball again.  Chris wanders close enough to hear their laughter and cursing, to smell their cologne and sweat over the sea air.  He's already red-cheeked and they haven't even noticed him.  He can't believe that he's doing this, but the setting makes him bold—he has every right to walk this way, doesn't he?  They can ignore him and he can ignore them, if they want.  It's not rude to watch people playing a game from a distance on a beach.

This time, he's ready for it when Will notices him and comes jogging over. Will is wearing dark green board shorts today, and they look really nice in contrast with his light brown coloring.

"Hey," he says, smiling—the expression crinkles and lights up his whole face, and Chris' cheeks go hotter.  That smile has a direct line to his dick, among other places.

"Hey," Chris replies, "I was just walking by."

"You want a drink?" Will asks, motioning toward a cooler that's half-buried in the sand.  When Chris hesitates he adds, "We have soda for mixing.  And some of the guys don't drink alcohol."

"Diet Coke?" Chris asks.

"Sure thing."

He barely feels the warm sand under his naked feet, following Will to the cooler, where Will selects a Dr. Pepper in obvious solidarity. Chris thinks that's polite of him.

"Having fun so far?" he asks.

"I did say I was here with my family, right?"

Will laughs. "Right.  Still, it's a nice spot."

"It is.  Do you live here?"

"Yep. Just moved here, actually.  It's closer to the production studio I work for."

"Nice," Chris says, smiling in what he hopes isn't an awkward way.  He's not allowed to talk about Glee yet, but he does say, "I'm an actor." And god, how good does  _that_  feel? "My pilot was picked up, so we're celebrating."

"Oh, wow, look at you," Will drawls, a little lispy and twangy and Chris' dick actually twitches—god, he needs to learn to control himself. "Most of the time when guys say that to me what follows is not nearly so glamorous."

"I'm not sure if it's  _glamorous_  yet, but it's my first real job, so I'm happy."

"You should've told me sooner," Will says, tugging his arm. "Come on.  Even my catty queen friends will want a working actor on their team."

"I don't want to brag," Chris says, resisting, but not as much as he should.  Will is touching him and he can't think beyond that at the moment.

"No worries." Will's smile twists into something a bit naughty, and oh god Chris would love it if his dick would stop already. "I pretend I'm playing Quidditch, anyway.  So much cooler."

Shit. He is completely fucked.

 

*

 

It only takes about an hour for him to be loosely accepted into the group—Will's friends are well above his social comfort level but they're nice, not pompous despite looking like models (in fact, most of them are nerdy cos players in their spare time), and they don't smother him or ask him too many questions.  

He mingles freely, and when his parents come looking for him he breaks away with only a little awkwardness to tell them that he's going to spend the evening on the beach with his new friends.  He's proud that he doesn't break eye contact when they look at the guys and then him with wariness.

"I'm not drinking or smoking and I won't leave the beach," he says, monotone.

"Just be careful," his dad says, and there's that look again, "they're strangers."

"Is Hannah good?" he asks.

"Don't worry about us," his mom says, smiling. "Have fun."

He feels comfortable enough to strip down to his t-shirt and cut-offs. He's wrangling another Diet Coke from the cooler when Will walks past and promptly stops in his tracks.

"Oh, honey, you're as white as milk," he says, and Chris is preparing himself to be offended when Will holds up a bottle of sunscreen. "Allow me to reinforce your defenses?"

Chris wonders whether or not an insult to his paleness would have been preferable to that offer.  Those clear brown eyes are sparkling—Will is giving him an opening to allow himself to be touched legitimately, with no pressure or agenda.  He wants it so much that it scares him. He's nodding his assent before he allows himself to think twice.

Will being so much taller than him is enough to drive him crazy—he definitely has a thing for being towered over (see the irrational  _thing_  that he already has for Cory)—but then there's also the nutty, spicy smell of Will, and those huge hands smearing sunscreen all over his neck, face, shoulders, arms, and back.  Arousal races beneath his skin, making him go red all the way down his chest and his pulse hammer against his neck.

And then Will cups his shoulders and rubs, hard, and Chris—slams his mouth shut against the moan that rises in his throat, which then comes out as a muffled noise of surprise instead.

"You're so tense," Will says, lisping again (yet another thing that they have in common). "Is this okay?" He laughs. "Because you're not relaxing."

"Sorry," Chris says, trying to go back to feeling comfortable.  He's just too into Will for this to be a calming experience.  He blurts, laughing, "You're really hot; give me a break."

"Ooh," Will drawls, "and he's honest, too." Those lovely hands disappear, and Chris wants them back, no matter how much they had destroyed his composure. "Okay, okay.  Backing off."

He goes on feeling Will's touch like it's left permanent marks behind, and over the course of the afternoon he never quite escapes that nervous, wanting place.  He wonders if this turns Will off—his inability to get over it, his innocence, and his naiveté—because Will doesn't touch him for the rest of the day, not even when he walks Chris to his rental to say goodnight.

"Believe me," Will is saying, "I love them.  But on like, day three or four when the booze and weed runs out and no one wants to pony up for more?  Yeah.  They start yammering on about their hookups or their mothers or their jobs and I'm just like, ‘Girl, do I look like your therapist?'  Then I'm hiding in my room with a bowl and my headphones on trying to find my happy place all over again." He smiles. "Or at least that's what I imagine doing—truth is, I usually end up playing therapist nine times out of ten.  I just can't turn them away.  I love those idiots."

"That's sweet," Chris says, kicking at sand.  They've been standing outside of the rental for a while, and he's worried that his parents are watching them.

"You should come hang out at the house this weekend," Will says. "You haven't been."

Chris' stomach drops and his cheeks flush. "Okay."

Will stuffs his hands in his khaki's pockets.  He's beaming—he seems to realize this, and then tones it down a few watts. "You don't have to say yes, you know.  I realize I'm like an overgrown puppy, but you can go ahead and kick me if you need to."

"No, I want to come," Chris says, really trying. "I just—I'm super awkward, in case you haven't noticed." He exhales. "I'm not used to cool people wanting me around."

"Well that's a darn shame," Will says, his eyes bright with affection. "Also—I have a feeling that's gonna change real quick."

Chris sucks his lips in. "See you soon?"

"Sure thing."

He lies awake for hours.  It's not ridiculously late—barely midnight—but he can't stop thinking about Will.  His body vibrates with recollection, sharing a similar pitch with his thoughts—and yeah, this isn't going away.  He's fixated.  Everything feels unfinished and half-said.

The condo is silent, and at some point after noticing this, he makes a decision.  He gets dressed and tip toes out onto the beach.  It's a bit of a walk to the condo that Will and his friends are in, and by the time that he climbs the sandy steps in front of it he's out of breath.

He would text Will to let him know that he's outside instead of knocking, but he hasn't worked up the courage to ask for Will's phone number.  So he knocks—doesn't think about how this may be received—and breathes a sigh of relief when Will answers the door. Will is glassy-eyed and almost naked, wearing just a pair of briefs that leave nothing to the imagination.

"Oh, god, I woke you up," he says, horrified.

Will's smile is lazy and inebriated. "Uh, sort of.  Sorry.  I, uh, wasn't expecting you to take me up on that offer so fast?"

"I'll go.  Shit.  Sorry."

"No," Will says, stepping into the doorway.   _God in heaven, that body_. "It's okay.  Come in." Will leads him to the kitchen, which is a mess. "Can I fix you something?  We have pizza."

"No, thanks."

"You alright?" Will asks, blinking slowly. "Fight with your parents?"

Chris feels like a water balloon that's just shy of bursting. "I couldn't sleep."

Will's head tilts, and he frowns. "Okay."

His mouth is doing the thing where it doesn't consult his brain before speaking (this is a tactic that he's developed for getting through auditions, but here and now it's not really the best choice).  He closes the space in between them, striding through yellow light and shadow to where Will is freckled-pale-brown and gorgeous, allowing himself to look openly.

"I want to kiss you," he says, his tongue nervously parked at the front of his mouth.

Will's lips part. "Oh.  Chris.  Chris, you're—"

"Eighteen," Chris says. "And before you ask—no, I've never been with a guy."

"I'm twenty six."

"I don't care." He steps so close that Will's chest touches his.

There's interest and affection in those red-tinted eyes; Will wants it, too. Chris thinks they've both known since that first smile.

"Shit," Will breathes, bending over him, "shit, sweetheart, you're killing me."

He feels tiny and stupid, putting his sweaty palms on Will's strong chest.  Oh, god, there isn't an ounce of fat on that torso—what does Will think about his soft, still-rounded features?

The answer to that question ceases to matter when Will cups the back of his neck and pulls him up into a kiss that's sweeter than any Chris could have conjured in his most elaborate fantasies.  Will's other arm goes around his waist.  He opens his mouth to breathe or make a noise, and Will's tongue sweeps inside, and he's too busy getting hard to notice Will's dick pressing against his stomach.  He has no clue what he's doing—he'd kissed one or two girls in high school on dares, not like this—but Will takes him past that, guides him through every stumble until his spine is liquid against the refrigerator that Will is pressing him back into.  It goes from that to heated very quickly, Chris making noises that he can't be bothered to be embarrassed about, Will panting against his jaw as they grind into each other.

"Oh my god," Chris whimpers, when Will kisses down his neck. "Oh my  _god_." Will maps one side and then the other, sucking Chris' earlobe between his lips.  It's too much and not enough at the same time, and Chris sweeps magnets off of the refrigerator door as he claws for a handhold behind himself.  His knees are actually weak.

"Damn," Will pants, turning his jaw against Chris' temple. "Baby, I—I'm too high for this."

"What?"

"I smoked right before you came over, and I'm—fuck, I'm high and horny and stupid.  Your first time shouldn't be like that."

Chris' heart slams against his chest. "Are you only kissing me because you're messed up?"

"No," Will says, kissing his neck all the way to the collar of his t-shirt. "This is going to sound like a line, but I respect you, okay? Don't feel right about doing it like this."

What he thinks is,  _I don't care._   What he says is, "Okay," dropping the vice-like grip that he hadn't even realized he'd had on Will's powerful, sleek back.

"We're having a party tomorrow night before most of the guys leave," Will says, standing up straight.  His fingers comb the hair off of Chris' flushed forehead, and Chris' body aches at the touch. "I'll stay sober.  Come over and we'll see what happens.  But I want you to be sure."

Chris doesn't know how to handle this—he feels rejected and dumb.  He puts his fingertips on Will's chest and begins to ask, "Do you—do you want—" He can't say it.

Will's forehead touches his. "Way more than I should.  You're amazing."

Chris smiles, presses his face against Will's muscled shoulder and breathes, feeling closer to himself than he ever has before.

 

*

 

Naturally, the next day his parents have a whole slew of end-of-vacation activities planned.  He gets through brunch and a hike and an antique shop, everything a blur, and by dinner he's twitching in his chair and his mom excuses him with an exasperated sigh.

"I expect you to check in by midnight, young man!"

He wonders how old he'll have to get for this to not be a thing.

He starts to panic when he gets close enough to Will's house to hear loud music playing through the open windows and doors.  This is not his idea of fun, not really—but a part of him yearns to be pushed outside of his comfort zone and Will makes him feel reckless.  He wants to say that he's not intentionally channeling his inner Kurt Hummel as he pushes through a crowd of half-dressed, mostly trashed men, but he kind of does.  He doesn't put his chin down until he finds Will near the television in the living room and he can relax.

Will's face goes blank and then red, and he excuses himself and takes Chris by the arm, leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms.  He makes sure that no one has crashed his room, and only then do they duck inside, shutting out the noise of the party below.

Chris had taken the time to do his hair and put on clothes that fit him better than most of what he owns—boots, the tightest pair of jeans that he had packed, and a t-shirt that's almost sleeveless and fancier than what he usually wears (his mom calls it "racy").

Will turns on the bedside lamp and sits down, smiling. "You look great." He rubs his thumbs together. "I'm sorry about last night.  I was—wow, I was blitzed."

"I kind of threw myself at you after showing up unannounced.  It's okay."

After a pause, Will says, "I need you to know that I don't make a habit of hooking up with randoms.  Not even on vacation." He shrugs. "It's just not me, you know?  I'm a relationship guy, as lame as that sounds."

Chris' mouth goes as dry as the Sahara. "Okay."

"After a week of hanging out with you, though, I feel like I know you almost as well as any guy in this house, and I'll admit that I've slept with some of them," Will says, watching Chris' face. "I like you.  A lot.  But we need to be real, here.  This week is...it, for us, you know?  I don't want to send you home with regrets."

Chris isn't stupid.  They're on vacation.  Will is eight years older than him.  They aren't going to see each other again after this weekend. And still, Chris can't shake it.  He's never wanted to expose himself to another person the way that he does Will—and maybe this is only the first of many similar experiences, but what's wrong with there being a first?  There has to be one, and Chris can't imagine one better than a down to earth, sexy as hell guy who isn't looking to use him, who makes him so hard that he can't concentrate and smile so wide that his face hurts.

He is nervous, though.

"You said you had Prisoner of Azkaban on your iPad?" he asks, inching toward the bed.

"Of course."

"Can we just—do that, for now?"

Will smiles, and then winks. "We can do Harry Potter all night if you want."

Smiling, Chris steps out of his boots and sits on the bed.  Will props the iPad up on a pillow on his chest, and Chris realizes that he's waiting for Chris to cuddle up to him.  It's strange for Chris to feel this comfortable with another person, but he has to admit that sinking into Will's embrace feels right.  He puts his cheek on the warm, very male chest beneath him and relaxes.

They mostly MST3K the movie, drawing comparisons from the book, until Chris' sides hurt from laughing and Will has stopped the movie twice to get them soda and pizza and once for a bathroom break.  Chris forgets the original reason that he'd had to attend this party—forgets the party entirely, if he's being honest, and then realizes that he's probably being rude.

"Don't you want to hang out with your friends?" he asks.

"I can see them any time," Will answers.

When they get to the bit with Harry and Hermione on Buckbeak, he croons. "I love this part."

"Me too.  Sirius escaping was such a great sequence.  It translated well to screen, too."

Chris can only gawk—is this man even real?  He glances up to find Will watching him instead of the movie.  He wonders if the concealer that he'd used on his chin looks awful in this light.  And then he stops thinking entirely when Will leans in and kisses him, sliding one hand down his back all the way to the waistband of his jeans.  Chris makes a breathy noise when he inhales through his nose—every nerve ending in his body is firing.

"Goddamn, you're so hot," Will groans, "and like, Harry Potter is  _sacred_ —"

"Oh god I know," Chris moans, giggling at the same time, as Will's mouth travels down his neck. "Oh god don't stop."

Will hauls one of Chris' long legs over his hip, pressing a thigh in between.  Chris makes a noise when his junk crams too hard, too fast against Will's leg.

"Sorry, wasn't expecting—shit, you're hard already," Will says, biting down on his collarbone.  They kiss and rub for several incredible minutes, and he realizes how quickly this could be over when Will asks, "What do you want?"

"You," he says.

Will smiles into his flushed, hickey-dotted throat. "Anything specific?"

"Oh. Uh."

"I could improvise." Will licks a stripe along the ridge of his ear.

"O-oh."

"Or I could just keep messing with you." He drags his fingernails down the back of Chris' jean-clad thigh, making Chris' pelvis twitch and his cock dribble in his underwear.

"Right now you're about to make me come in my pants."

Will kisses him. "Seriously?"

He really doesn't want that to happen.  His face burns. "I want to—blow you."

Will breathes warm and slow down the column of his throat. "You watch a lot of porn?"

"N-not really," he says, "I think it's kind of gross."

Will rucks up his t-shirt. "Then allow me to demonstrate?" He kisses at a slice of Chris' pale, soft belly.  Chris is sensitive about the way that he looks versus the way that Will looks, but Will is inches from his dick and he wants to get off so badly.

"I didn't—I don't have condoms," he says, feeling stupid.

"I do," Will says, kissing the button on his fly and then on down the zipper, and all Chris can do is stare, his mouth open, enthralled by the heat and pressure against his dick and Will breathing him in like he smells amazing down there. "In my bag; side pocket." Chris reaches over, pulls a strip of condoms from the side pocket of the backpack with shaking fingers, and tears one off.  Will doesn't take it, though—he just keeps kissing and pushing against Chris' bulge, until all Chris can feel is heat beneath the material and an ever-growing wet spot where the tip of his cock is resting.  He's so close that he isn't even sure he'll make it through the condom sliding on, but he doesn't tell Will that.  Finally, Will nuzzles up against his balls, pushes at his thighs so that his feet are flat on the bed and his legs are apart.  

"You're about to soak your jeans," Will says, staring up at him. "Can I take them off?"

He bites his lip and nods.  He's so far gone that his dick has to be peeled out of his underwear, and when that's done it bobs vertical in the space of a heartbeat.  He groans—turns his head, steels his pelvis, and breathes out harshly.

"Oh my god," Will says, ripping the condom packet open. "Can I...?"

His chest rises and falls unevenly. "I'm not going to—I'm so close."

"The condom will kill a little bit of the friction," Will says, gently easing it on.

There's a hand that's not his around his dick, and he's pretty sure that every bit of friction is alive and well and that Will is a big fat  _liar_. He squints.  His toes curl.  He refuses to come.  Will doesn't stroke him—just lies there between his legs, kissing his pale thighs and balls—and Chris doesn't have time to be self-conscious. He's too busy trying not to spill inside the condom.

"Better?" Will asks, after a few minutes.

"Y-yeah," he says.  He can't stop shaking.  He's really, really nervous, and Will is just—too patient. "Can we...?  Please, I'm—" Will leans in and licks the underside of the head, and he inhales sharply. "Oh my god,  _please_."

Long, lush, circular licks make the head of his cock draw up tight and sensitive, but the pressure of Will's tongue isn't enough to make him come—it's the best kind of torture and he lets it happen, lets his head fall back onto the pillows and his belly go concave between his ribs, lets Will lap at every inch of him until there isn't a spot that hasn't been tasted.

"You don't have to hold back," Will says, when he finally moves to wrap his mouth around Chris' cock. "I want to watch you come."

Chris is feeling way too much, way too fast—and then Will is sucking his cock, and he can't help it; he comes maybe sixty seconds into a series of hard, fast, bobbing passes, his pelvis hitching off of the mattress and his hands curling into fists around the blanket beneath him.  He's sweat all over everything, and the orgasm has left him dizzy and overwhelmed.  Will's fingers close around the base of the condom and he rolls it off deftly, tying it off and flinging it onto the nightstand.  He wraps his hand around Chris' sticky, shrinking cock and strokes it.

"Oh, oh my god, oh, god," he chants, dribbling over Will's knuckles. "Oh my god, W-Will..."

Will's face goes so red that it's almost purple. "You're so sexy. Would you take your shirt off?"

Chris does it without thinking, then says, "You're like a model, god, don't even."

"You don't have to be ripped to be hot.  And you are.  So fucking hot, honey." Will crawls up his body, kissing as he goes, every spot that Chris hates, from his thighs to his belly to his nipples.

"Can I try?" he asks. "I won't be as good as you, but..."

"If you want to.  No pressure."

Chris lets his eyes drift up and down Will's body—even through a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, he's  _stupid_  gorgeous. "Yeah, I mean, it'll be such a chore."

"So you're sassy after you come.  Noted."

"I guess I am," he says, running his hands up and down Will's chest.  He lets his fingers snag the hem of Will's t-shirt, and shivers in delight at being allowed to lift it up and off. "You'd be the first person to know." Will sits up on his knees so that Chris can pull down his shorts—and discover that he isn't wearing anything underneath. "Oh—oh, wow, you're huge."

"We're basically the same size, you realize," Will says.

Chris thinks that he might actually go cross-eyed staring.  He wants to find a flaw, but for the life of him he can't.  And holy crap, Will's dick is—beautiful.  He'd never thought that a dick could be pretty, but it's fat and long and pink and curved just so at the tip and fucking  _shit_  Chris wants to touch it and lick it and feel it spurt.  He wonders if this is how porn makes most people feel, because if so he totally gets why people watch it now.

And then Will grasps himself and strokes, once, and Chris actually moans out loud.

Will laughs. "Mm, I could get used to this."

"Your ego is bigger than your dick now, isn't it?"

"Why don't you come find out?" Will tears off another condom.

Chris glances over his shoulder. "Could—okay, this is probably stupid." Will raises his eyebrows, and then nods in encouragement. "Could you sit on the edge of the bed so that I can kneel on the floor?" He blushes. "I just—really want to do that, with your hands on me."

"Oh, heck yes," Will breathes.

It's so easy, dropping to his knees there beside the bed.  Even the hard floor feels good, perks him up and distracts him, and then there's Will's beautiful body, those gorgeous legs spreading and his big, hard cock standing up in between them.  

Chris puts his hands on Will's thighs, and then lets Will guide him through rolling the condom on.  Will's hand over his down the shaft of Will's cock is so mind-bogglingly hot that he trembles the whole time.  He sits there, trying to relax and just stroke it, learn the shape and weight of it.  Will leans back on his hands.  His nipples are hard and he's flushed all the way down his chest, breathing fast, his eyes fixed on Chris' hand.

"Fuck, yeah," he breathes, "little harder, just, yeah, like that." Chris is so caught up in this that he doesn't realize he's drooling until saliva drips over the dimple on his chin and Will reaches up to wipe it away. "Need something in your mouth, sweetheart?"

 _Apparently_ , Chris thinks, with a wry smile.  He bends to kiss the tip, and then licks a circle around it the way that Will had done to him.  Even though he's embarrassed beyond the point of sense he makes himself look up, watches Will's eyes close and his cheeks darken when Chris wraps his mouth around the head.  The texture is stranger than he'd imagined, and when he tries to sink down he realizes just how much of it there is.  His teeth and tongue feel sloppy.

Will opens his eyes.  His chest is tense and trembling. "Put your—lips over your teeth." He thumbs Chris' jaw. "Breathe through your nose.  Flatten your tongue and take a breath and just—" Chris sinks down, pushing at least half of Will's cock into his mouth. "Oh, fuck.  Oh  _fuck_."

Who would have thought that there was an actual rhythm to this, a way to do it with a plan so that it isn't uncomfortable?  Chris' upper lip has snot on it and his chin is wet with spit and he doesn't care. Having a cock fill his mouth had felt as good as Will touching him. He does it again and again, and earns the reward of Will's fingers threading through his hair.

"Never push or press down unless a guy wants you to," Will says, "it's rude."

"Do I want you to?" he asks, pulling off with a slurp, his mouth swollen and sensitive. "I don't know.  This is my first time. Maybe I want you to.  Maybe I want you to move, too."

"Shit. Fuck.  Just—" Will's fingers grasp the crown of Chris' head, and he eases his dick in and out of Chris' mouth, several times, until he's edging toward Chris' throat with every press. "Oh, fuck.  Oh god honey I'm—gonna come if you let me do that for too long."

"Would you stand?  I want to—while you're standing."

Which is how he ends up fully upright on his knees, Will's hands in his hair and his clutching Will's hip on one side and his cock in the other, holding him steady while he fucks Chris' mouth with careful but determined strokes.  Chris apparently has no gag reflex, because as long as he breathes right and holds Will at a certain angle, he doesn't choke.  He's not crazy about the taste of the condom, but giving his first blowjob is too exciting for such a minor detail to matter.

Will lasts forever, at least to Chris, who is used to jerking off like it's a chore and usually only taking a few minutes at most.

Will strokes Chris' scalp as his head bobs, his perfect body trembling as he grows closer to coming with every passing second.  Chris wants to say that he'd like Will to jerk off on him, but before he can pull away, Will's whimpering and flooding the condom, buried in his mouth. It takes every bit of his willpower not to lick the residue of sweat and come off of Will's bobbing, flagging erection right after he strips the condom off.

Will gets a beach towel from his bag, spreads it out on the bed, and uses an edge to pat them both dry.  They lie on it after, side by side, a little space between them, and Chris is grateful—he does want a second to catch up, but he doesn't want Will to go too far.  

Will reaches over and takes his hand.  The sweep of Will's thumb across the back of his hand is deeply reassuring. "You okay?"

"We didn't finish the movie."

Will laughs. "Travesty."

Chris can't help the joke.  He smiles, and feels brave enough to lace their fingers. "I'm amazing."

"No argument there."

He falls asleep without meaning to, clinging to Will's hand like a lifeline.  

He wakes up some time later when Will kisses his cheek and whispers, "Gonna shower.  Want to take a turn after?" He nods sleepily, and sleeps the whole time that Will is gone.

Will comes back wearing a towel, his body glistening and his hair spiky-wet, and when Chris sits up on the edge of the bed he also finds himself smiling and making a soft, appreciative noise before burying his face against Will's dripping six pack.

"Hello," he says, licking a stripe across it.

Will laughs. "You've been with my abs this entire time, haven't you?"

"There's room in my heart for you both," Chris says, mock-solemn, biting the pronounced muscle to the edge of Will's towel.

"Hey, go shower before someone else grabs it.  I need to do damage control downstairs."

Chris smiles, a little abashedly. "Okay."

In front of the bathroom mirror after an embarrassed shuffle down the hallway—one of Will's friends had seen him and executed a double-take—he texts his mom that he's fine and going to spend the night because there isn't anyone awake or sober enough to walk him down the beach.  It's a flimsy excuse, but this kind of thing works when his parents truly do not want to know what he's up to, and he gets the feeling that this is definitely one of those times.

And then he looks up at his reflection and almost drops his phone.

He's scratched everywhere, his hair is a mess, and his neck is  _covered_  in hickeys.

He feels loose all over, as if someone had discovered and pressed his unwind button, and—well, he guesses that someone had.  Thinking about what they did makes him shiver with pleasure.

When he gets back to the room, wearing only a towel and feeling braver for it, Will is still downstairs.  He amuses himself with Will's iPad for a while, then plays a game on his phone, and when he runs out of things to do he slides his hand beneath his towel and strokes his cock, thinking about Will, about Will's mouth on him, about Will's body, about sucking Will's dick.

He intends to stop long before he realizes that Will is standing in the doorway watching him.

"Don't let me stop you," Will says, licking out over his bottom lip.

Chris blushes and pulls his hand out from under the towel.

"I meant that," Will says, crawling across the bed to straddle him. "Unless you'd like a hand?" He kisses Chris beneath his ear. "Or a mouth." He kisses Chris' bare, damp shoulder. "God, you smell good." He nuzzles kisses all the way down Chris' arm, then inward across his chest.

Chris doesn't know how to express just how hungry Will makes him.  He sinks his fingers into Will's damp hair and rolls them over, kissing Will's open mouth and spearing it with his tongue.

"Can we...?"

"You're a quick learner."

Chris smiles, not faltering even when Will wraps his legs around Chris' waist.  Will's hands slide down his back to cup his ass, and holy  _crap_  nerve endings—Chris whines, his pelvis jerking.

"So, not to be...indelicate..." Will squeezes and kneads. "Did you want the full tour tonight?"

Chris hesitates, kissing over the rise of Will's pecs with obsessive focus, licking and nibbling as he goes.  He uses the motion to hide the look on his face and the blush that creeps over his ears and down the back of his neck.  He isn't so innocent that he doesn't recognize Will's very polite way of asking "would you like to get fucked in the ass".  The thing is, he's really—not sure that he wants to do that.  At all.  The idea freaks him out a little.

Sensing his hesitation, Will adds, with a delicate pinch to either of his butt cheeks, "This leg of the tour has two options, in case you're wondering how flexible I am."

Chris' dick throbs. "Oh.  Oh, wow, really?" He gets so hot, so fast that he can't breathe correctly. "I—I'd probably be bad, I can barely stop myself from—when you're—touching me."

"You've got more than enough going on down there to make up for it," Will says, dragging his fingertips up and over Chris' sacrum and drawing shapes on the small of his back. "I could be in control." He kisses Chris' lips, softly and sweetly. "Ride you.  Would you like that?"

Whatever is left of Chris' brain after imagining that scenario likes it—he opens his mouth and a muffled noise of want falls out instead of words.

Will laughs, rolling them over again. "You just want to stare at my abs."

He drags his fingernails down Will's stomach. "You know I'd feel the same whether you had abs or not, right?" He adds, in a squeaky stage whisper, "The abs do not hurt your case, however."

Will's mouth twitches up on one side and he looks years younger for a moment, almost bashful—and then he smiles fully, his eyelashes fluttering, and wraps his right hand around Chris' cock. "You're the sweetest eighty year old eighteen year old man I've ever met."

"Oh, my god, you jerk," Chris says, twisting, but Will holds on, riding out the motion, and finishes with a tickle attack and a round of smacking kisses against Chris' belly that make him start giggling all over again.  When he can breathe again, Will grins down at him, his eyes warm, and Chris—forgets to inhale entirely.  Will is  _breathtaking_.

"I mean it," Will says, kissing him and touching him at the same time, "you are—really special." He exhales heavily. "And I really, really want you in me right now."

He presses his cheek to Will's jaw and closes his eyes. "Do you want me to do—anything?"

"Some guys like to be fingered or rimmed before, as a rule," Will says, sitting up and tearing the condom packet open, "but I'm not picky.  Not—not when I want to do it real bad." He's staring at Chris beneath him, his pupils blown and his cheeks red. "Not when it would take much longer than we have to show you just how I like to be stretched." Chris blushes, staring back at him. "How much I love long, thick fingers in me, or an eager tongue as deep as it can go..."

Chris throbs in the condom and against Will's fingers, breathing faster. "Will.  Shit.   _Shit_ , please."

"Lube?"

Chris drops it once before getting it to Will, who clicks it open, pours out a handful, and closes it one-handed, as if he's done this a dozen times before.  Chris' pulse slams against his throat, his chest, and his wrists—god, he's about to  _fuck_  this beautiful man, and he has no idea if he's ready for ir, but he wants it too badly to stop now.  

Will steadies him, one hand on his cock and the other on his trembling belly.

"Always go slow," Will says, his muscles cording up as he guides Chris' cock along his crack and over his hole several times before letting the head catch, before letting his body weight take him down, "and use too much lube until you figure out exactly how much you need. Oh—fuck, honey, you're gonna feel so good all the way in.  Just breathe, okay?"

Will's ass is like a fist around him, only ten times hotter and tighter and more slick, and Chris has to clamp down the moment they begin, his eyes rolling back and his spine curving.  

But it's more than that—it's a weird crossing of a personal boundary that makes him feel as if he's doing something more than just pushing his dick into Will's ass.  Where they're touching he's tingling wildly, and his heart is beating so fast.  They're  _connected_.

When Will begins slowly bouncing up and down on him he opens his eyes, tries to breathe, but mostly focuses on not coming, which he's about two seconds away from.  After a minute or two more of panting into the silence of the house dead asleep around them, Chris puts his shaking fingers on Will's sweaty thighs and gasps, "I'm gonna come, stop moving,  _stop_." Will is so tight.

Will stops.  

They repeat this cycle four more times.  Chris is a whimpering mess, trembling so hard when he backs down the fifth time that his muscles are beginning to cramp.  It hurts.  But it's so good.  Will is grinning, not even winded, rising and falling with perfect grace.

"Feels good," he says, playing with Chris' nipples. "And your stamina is more impressive than you thought it would be, I bet."

"I'm gonna die.  Oh my god, I need to come."

"Don't. You can last longer." He stops mid-thrust, holding the position in an effortless way that only a man as in shape as he is could pull off. "Yeah, you like that?  How strong I am?" Chris whimpers. "Do you want to come on me?"

"Fuck."

"All over my chest?"

"Fuck!"

Will sinks down the rest of the way. "If you can last through taking the condom off, I'll let you."

"Yeah,  _yeah_ —"

Will does this in a quick one-two motion, letting Chris fall out of him with a grunt while sweeping the condom off almost simultaneously, and then guiding Chris' cock in front of them as he leans back, angling it over his torso.  Will's fist is a blur around him—tacky, wet, and rough.  Chris can't back down now, and when he comes it's so intense that it almost hurts, spurting for what feels like ages, painting Will's pecs and abs with streak after streak of white.

He realizes when it's over that he's bent in half, clutching Will's hips and waist, sucking air and—his face is wet with tears of exertion. He buries his cheek against the crook of Will's elbow and Will holds him, stroking his hair and the back of his neck and his quivering shoulders.

"Hey, hey, shh."

He doesn't speak.  He just shakes, digging his fingernails into Will's back.  It's hitting him all at once—the vulnerability, the exposure, and the sheer naked sweaty perfection of experiencing something that he had never thought he might experience this week.

How lucky is he to have found Will on that beach?

Even after he calms down he can't sleep, and he doesn't know what to say to Will.

"Want to go for a walk on the beach?" Will asks, when the silence goes on too long.

Chris nods, and Will lets him borrow a hoodie.  

They walk all the way down to the water's edge.  They aren't alone on the beach but it's dark, and Chris can't make himself worry about who might be watching them.

"Do you want to go home?" Will asks.

"It would look really suspicious if I did that now."

"Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

He smiles. "I'm not that freaked out."

"Okay."

"Sorry, this is—really weird, I know." He touches Will's arm, and is immediately pulled into a hug. "That was just more than I expected."

"It's not weird at all.  I just want to make sure you're alright."

"I will be.  And I want to spend the night with you," he says. "Maybe we could just slow down?"

"Sounds good to me." Will takes his hand.

They walk in silence, their joined hands swinging between them, and then Chris asks, "Are you always this sweet, even when you're just casually with someone?"

"Is that a strange concept for you?"

"I grew up in a town full of people who voted for Bush twice.  And now I work in LA." He shrugs. "Do the math."

"Point," Will says. "No, I get it.  I also grew up in the boonies and have worked in LA.  It's no surprise to me that so many of my LA friends are gay guys who moved from small, conservative towns just to get away and start a new life—some of them have my style, some don't.  I dunno, it's all individual, I think.  I guess you haven't had many positive experiences yet."

"Some—I mean, nothing like this," Chris says, watching his footprints as they form in the sand. "Meeting you was not something I saw coming this week."

"I could say the same."

A pause, and then, "We only have tomorrow."

Will nods. "Are you okay with that?"

"I think so?" he says, and means it. "I'd love to be friends with you, but...it would be kind of impossible, if we wanted more." He smiles, looking down at their hands. "And I somehow don't see us managing to be just friends."

"That I can't argue with," Will says.

Chris honestly has no idea how a relationship between them could work beyond this week, and a part of him has no desire to wonder.  He has a very busy life to get back to, and if Glee takes off, he's pretty sure that he won't have the time for a boyfriend.  He has no idea if or when he'll be out publicly, either—and if he can't figure that out, not much else can follow.

"Are you up for some cuddling?" Will asks. "We still have a movie to finish."

He breathes out into the cool, salty air and smiles.  He definitely wants that, but he makes them take their time walking back, bringing their bodies close to ward off the chill, and flushing with additional warmth when Will wraps an arm around his waist.

They fall asleep to the credits of the movie, the melody of the Harry Potter theme barely louder than Will's heart beating evenly beneath the shell of his ear.

He wakes up at the crack of dawn to use the shower before anyone else. He still manages to cross paths with someone who either never went to sleep or is an early riser, but he isn't one of Will's friends who Chris had spent any significant time with, so Chris gets only a brief double-take this time before the bathroom door closes behind him.

He's showered and dressed in the outfit that he'd come to the party in shortly after, texting his parents that he'll be back for at least the morning while he sits beside a sleeping Will.

"I hope you haven't been drinking, Christopher," is his mom's reply.  He rolls his eyes.

 _If only they knew_ , he thinks.

Will startles him by asking, "They worried?"

"Geez, you're awake," he says. "Nah."

Will sits up, kisses his bicep and his shoulder. "How do you feel about morning breath?"

"Depends," Chris says, tilting his face so that Will can kiss him. "Hm. Borderline.  Undecided."

Will laughs, kissing him harder. "I'll take that."

Chris had had every intention of saying goodbye and leaving before falling headfirst back into this, but he's horizontal in seconds.  He loves the way that Will's bare skin feels against his clothes, loves the warm, smooth expanse of Will's body beneath the sheets.  He lines their hips up, sucks Will's tongue into his mouth, and moans when Will rolls over on top of him, hauling both of Chris' legs up and around his waist.

"Letting you leave may be an issue," Will rasps, kissing down his throat.

"I just got dressed," he squeaks.

"God, I want to blow you again."

He whines, grinding his dick against Will's hip. "M-my parents—"

Will pops the button on his jeans and tugs the zipper down, kissing his bulge near the slit in his boxers.  This is more than enough to get him fully hard, and he forgets to continue protesting in the fumble for a condom.  He doesn't want to stop.  He feels like he'll die if they stop.

Will swallows him down with a hungry groan, making these glorious, anguished noises with every wet bob, Chris' thighs bracketing his ears and Chris' fingers digging through his hair.

He stops at one point, smiles wickedly, and says, "You can hold my head down, if you want."

"Oh my god," Chris moans, doing that while he grinds up carefully, fucking into Will's throat.  The elastic clench is too much—he comes without warning, twisting Will's hair between his fingers.  His ass hits the bed, and his chest heaves. "Shit."

Will discards the condom, wipes him off, and does up his pants.  He lies on top of him, kissing his open, panting mouth. "Your toes scrunch up when you come."

"This guy told me once that I also get sassy."

Will grins. "Yeah?"

Chris pulls him in by his ears and kisses him, reaching down to cup him through his boxers.  He ruts the flat of his palm down the shaft of Will's cock, then squeezes it on the backstroke.  He bites Will's bottom lip, tugs on it, and then sucks it between his lips. "My family can wait."

Will's eyelids flutter. "Are you sure?"

He's never been more sure.

 

*

 

There's nothing stranger than going back to his mom and dad after having sex.   

Well—escaping Will's house, rumpled and covered in stage makeup to hide his hickeys while a handful of Will's friends watched had been pretty awkward, too.  

"Y'all can just fuck right off," Will had said, kissing Chris' cheek.

"Jealousy isn't pretty, boys," Chris had said, curling his fingers against Will's lower back.

That had silenced the jailbait jokes, at least.

But Mom, Dad, and Hannah over the breakfast table are a whole new brand of no.

His dad is always hard to read, and of course Hannah would never think of him like that, but he gets this feeling that his mom just  _knows_. He hasn't been subtle about the company that he's been keeping, and it's more or less only the fact that he's eighteen that's allowing him to get away with it.

"Your new friends leaving tonight?" she asks, when she gets him alone.

"Yep."

"Everything alright?"

"Yep."

"Okay, honey.  Are you going over to say goodbye?"

"Probably...they're barbequing."

"Alrighty. Try to come home for bed?"

_Damn._

"Okay." He lets out the breath that he'd been holding.

He spends the rest of the day with Hannah—takes her out onto the beach and shopping in town, allowing her familiar, grounding companionship to even him out.

"You look happy," she says, out of the blue, and he just smiles and shrugs and nods and buys her the hat that she's been eying.

By dinner, though, he's eager to see Will.  He showers and changes into a clean t-shirt and shorts and sandals and jogs down the beach, following the smell of food to where Will's friends have their grill and picnic tables set up.

"Hey, Chris," someone calls, "he's over there."

Will is plating food, and when he sees Chris he lights up and waves him over. "Chicken and grilled zucchini for the man on the diet." He's wearing a pair of very low slung shorts, and when Chris eyes him before the plate of food he winks, leans over the table and kisses Chris on the cheek. "See something else you like?"

Chris blushes and takes the plate, loving every second of Will's flirtatious appraisal.

They eat together, mingle, and play party games as well as volleyball and Frisbee with Will's friends.  Chris has a great time.  Will's friends seem to be cool with him, finally, despite the walk of shame jokes, and by sundown he's completely relaxed, a little high from second hand smoke, and Will's hand is draped over his ass as they walk the beach at the start of the evening chill.

"Are you leaving early tomorrow?" he asks.

"First light."

"I can't stay over.  I think I've pushed it as far as I can with my parents."

Will nods. "I figured."

When it's completely dark and they're as alone as they can be, Chris slides his arms up and around Will's neck.  He's on his tip toes for a kiss when Will meets him halfway, bending down to hold him around his waist.  He breathes into it, savoring every pass.  They stop to breathe, and he tucks his head up and under Will's chin and holds on to him tightly.

"I am so glad we met this week," Will says, rubbing his back.

"Me too." His throat closes up.  It's not going to hit him until he's home that he's never going to see Will again, but that doesn't mean that he isn't feeling clingy now.

They spend their last few hours together sharing a blanket on the beach and talking about everything and nothing.  Will goes into more detail about his religious upbringing, about Florida, about being lonely and then moving to LA and being relatively successful but still being lonely until he'd figured himself out, about losing his dad and his mom remarrying, about learning to exercise and eat properly, about coming out and dating.  He talks about his big family and his sisters and how amazingly supportive most of them are.  He talks about being an uncle (both step and biological).  He talks about his friends.  He talks about loving film but wanting more than anything to write, to create and see those creations on the big screen.  Chris listens and then offers his much shorter story, which seems to amuse and impress despite his reservations.

"I think your show is gonna take off," Will says, when there's little else to say.

"I haven't told you anything about it."

"You have a big part, right?"

"Sort of?"

"Come on, tell me the title.  I want to make sure I catch it when it airs. I promise I won't tell."

"'Glee'," Chris says, "it's called 'Glee'."

"'Glee'. Huh.  Well, that's easy to remember."

"I shot it last year.  Oh, man, I looked even dorkier then and now you're gonna see it."

"You were just out of school, right?"

"Mm-hm."

Will kisses him. "Well, I think it's gonna be a hit.  I think you're gonna be a hit."

"Vote of confidence accepted." He'll take all of the good mojo that he can get.  He wants Glee to be his first big thing so badly.  Success now, right out of that fucking school, would be so sweet—the biggest and baddest 'fuck you' to Clovis that he could imagine.

He doesn't even notice the beach growing slowly abandoned, but it must be almost one in the morning.  Will is beginning to pull away.  Chris sits up, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.

"I should go," he says, and his voice wavers.  

_Fuck._

As they walk back toward his rental, Will's arm around his shoulders and his around Will's waist, Will asks, "Did you want to be alone tonight?  I didn't even ask."

It's weird, but he kind of hadn't. "No," he says, leaning into Will. "This was nice.  Did you?"

"I was up for anything, but I'm glad we talked."

Standing in front of the condo, Chris realizes that they'd never exchanged last names or numbers, but that Will will discover his name, at least, if Will makes good on his promise to watch Glee.  Chris wonders if he will just smile when his friends ask "Didn't we meet that kid on the beach?" and say, "Yeah, he was sweet."

The chances of Chris talking about Will to anyone he knows are slim to none.  He's already sensitive about his private life remaining private, though there isn't much to conceal yet.

Will laces their fingers and kisses Chris like it's the first time all over again.  Chris would like to think that his kissing has come a long way since then.  He smiles into it the whole time.

They part with a wet noise, and Chris unconsciously grips the front of Will's flannel.  His breath stutters when Will's fingers push into his hair and tip his face up to cradle it.

"Damn," Will whispers, and—his hands are  _shaking_. "Okay, damn, sorry, this is—fucking hard."

"I could make an inappropriate erection joke?"

Will's chest convulses with laughter. "Actually I think you're just making it worse."

Chris closes his eyes.  Those hands feel so good on him.  He doesn't want to let go any more than Will does.  He knows what he feels—but he also knows that this is as much as they can share, and that he has to leave Ventura and put this vacation behind him.  It feels like his chest has been hollowed out, though—like Will's impending departure from his life has already taken something vital from him—and they haven't even said goodbye.

So he wraps his forearms around Will's neck and kisses him, not caring if his parents see, kisses Will until he's dizzy and his heart is pounding.  Will's hands are everywhere—on his shoulders, neck, face, back, and chest, as if they're trying to memorize him.  He doesn't want to cry—rarely does—but his eyes burn because Will is crying and something about that is destroying him.

"Remember me when you're a big star?" Will asks, wet and thick and horrible.

Chris laughs. "Oh, my god."

"I'm already a Glee fanboy."

"Will."

"I will buy the fuck out of that t-shirt."

"Will!"

"How do you feel about cologne-scented fan mail?" He squints. "I'll need spare underwear to send along with."

" _Will_ , oh, my god."

He smiles, stroking Chris' flushed cheeks. "Go home, gorgeous."

"Thank you," Chris says, the urge to cry rising dangerously high.

"Go home," Will repeats, dropping his hands, his eyes filled with tears.

Chris turns and runs up the steps to the rental, not allowing himself to look back.

 

*

 

A year later, at a friend's wedding, Will spills his beer all over a woman wearing a lovely dress.  She has a whiskey in each hand and yet she's still managing to do the robot without spilling a drop. She shrieks, steps out of the beer puddle, and raises one arm at him like a warrior greeting another warrior in battle.

"Whoa buddy, I'm not that kind of girl!" she shouts, twisting her arms at opposing ninety degree angles.  He babbles an apology, but all she responds with is, "Towel time!" and drags him off to assist her.

Her hair is styled into ringlets and pigtails.  She's wearing a top hat. He decides that he  _has_  to know her, and then realizes that she looks kind of familiar.

"Were you at Promenade for Kyle Martinez's twenty fifth birthday?" he asks, as he helps her clean up in the nearest bathroom.

"Oh, hey, yeah," she says, wobbling, and drunkenly jabbing her index finger into his chest. "Beer was involved then, too, if I recall correctly."

He laughs and sticks out his hand. "Will Sherrod."

"Ashley Fink," she says, smirking as she pumps his hand. "Nice to re-meet ya."

"Likewise. Can I get you another drink?"

"Sho' can," she says, taking his arm. "I think I'm gonna like you all over again, Sherrod.  Yo, add me on Facebook."

He grins. "I'd love to."


End file.
